


396

by gimmeshellder



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Other, like so many of these are human AUs SORRY MOM, like they're probably humans unless overtly obviously not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:53:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4379747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmeshellder/pseuds/gimmeshellder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy, smutty, or other multiship snippets in exactly 396 words. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pearlmethyst

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically an old snippet of mine but after Stevenbomb 3, y'all, we need us some damn Pearlmethyst snuggles.

Amethyst is usually first to recover. It’s a vexing thing. Pearl used to believe that it was her regular sleep schedule and daily caloric intake that helped aid her speedy metabolism and thus enabled swifter recuperation, but she’s at last begun to admit that _she_ is simply  _slower._  She needs more time. Illusory body notwithstanding, Pearl is prone to abnormally powerful…  _culminations_ … that lay her low long enough for Amethyst to wriggle, all around and along her, warm and mischievous: murmur sly into her ribs, pepper kisses.  

She’s busy with that now, in fact. Pearl has her wrist rested over her brow, keeping the low light of her room from her eyes, but she can still feel Amethyst tracing fingers along the cup of her hipbones.

“‘S a miracle I don’t cut myself on these,” she teases. When Pearl doesn’t react beyond a scoff, she moves onto nibbling the ridge of one, eyebrows waggling.

“Amethyst…” she sighs, sounding weary. She’s smiling, though. It would be a lie to say that the closeness and warmth doesn’t put her in a playful mood. A  _good_ mood. She shifts her wrist away from her brow - blinks her eyes into adjusting - and turns her head to peek down at her: splayed out over the top of Pearl’s legs, like a needy cat.

Something gentle in her chest hums at the sight. 

“Wh _aaa_ t?” It seems that to Amethyst, this is unacceptable.

Because annoying Pearl is the whole point of this exercise, Amethyst pretends not to see the smile – or Pearl’s gem, which is practically  _purring_  at her with its lazy, contented glow. She buries her face in the dip of Pearl’s belly. Not much cushion there, either, but it hides her flushed face. She goes on, a bit muffled, “Just sayin’. It’s like spooning a bunch of lawn equipment.”

Pearl would never talk like…  _this,_ anywhere else... but when the two of them are dovetailed together this way - warm, and safe, and sated - Pearl enjoys play. She enjoys being here. She enjoys Amethyst, here.

That’s why her grin is sly and audible: “And here I thought you  _hated ‘_ landscaping.’”

With an outraged squawk and a redoubled flush Amethyst springs up, howling ( _“That_ _tongue’s even sharper than yer hips!”),_  andclambers once again up Pearl’s long, familiar body: feeling her shake with laughter. 


	2. Lapearl, maybe

 

She’s waiting in the fountain, again. Pearl’s begun to expect her. She still won’t divulge exactly how she can manipulate her way inside -- seems to relish lording the secret over them. For all her hydrokinetic lockpicking, though, she still can’t summon Pearl’s belongings from the fountains. Try as she might. That seems to be her interest at the moment: shaping the water like a potter with clay, weaving it into breathtaking shapes, sifting in search.

 

Pearl steadies herself at the doorway. She wonders which Lapis Lazuli is in her room tonight.

 

The best method, she’s found, is to slowly approach before trying to speak. Abrupt, raised voices (like Pearl had done the first time) or sudden threatening movements (like Pearl had done the first time) end with water damage and wreckage and a days-long absence spent warily watching the sea.

 

Senseless. Whenever Lapis wants to hurt Pearl or the other Crystal Gems, she only manages to hurt Steven. Thousands of years old and nothing to show for it.

 

 _“Patience, Pearl.”_ She can feel the ghost of Garnet’s palm on her shoulder. Calm. Heavy. Ruby’s gem, digging. _“We have to reach her. It’s a shaky bridge, but she **is** building one.”_

 

What's baffling is the question of why she's building towards _Pearl._ She first flattered herself to think she was second in endearment, after Steven, but Lapis likely takes comfort in her room for the same reason Pearl does: it’s full of weapons.

 

She steps into the fountain, about to ask something wry and airish -- _“Find everything you need, hm?” -_ \- but Lapis turns first and locks eyes with her. Pearl freezes. She’s usually ignored until it pleases Lapis to acknowledge her. Her energy is _odd_ tonight, and Pearl should have noticed sooner. The possibility of attack comes to the fore.

 

Lapis Lazuli does not attack. Instead she crafts the water in the air around her -- weaves it, threads it -- into an elegant and familiar shape between the two of them.

 

Pearl clenches with nausea. She takes a step forward, _‘Stop, wait’_ on her tongue as Lapis manipulates the water-scabbard: tugs the oblong water-gem from its center: lets the water-gem glow, grow, reform into a water-Pearl.

 

“If you’d told me sooner,” Lapis mutters, eyeing Pearl’s trembling knees and her hand clasped over her mouth, “I’d’ve probably trashed your room less.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang it. I was planning on writing a make-out scene. Maybe next time...
> 
> ArtemisPanthar on tumblr has a lovely theory/headcanon of Pearl having literally been a part of Rose’s scabbard (gives the episode a fun new layer, eh?), probably utilized in a gem-powered sense. Nice one, Artie!


	3. Lapidot

She does _not_ like hugs, but kisses have gone over well. She’s especially fond of having her head petted, following the initial horror that her body produces a purr when you do so (“Wh-what _is_ that?!”). She’s stopped flinching when you reach for her hand.

It’s tricky, navigating these little advances. Painstaking. The offer of this sort of contact outright baffled her at first. When _you_ had known Homeworld, it was common for gems to couple off -- sometimes in threes or even fours -- to deepen bonds, to strengthen synchronicity, and for the sheer helpless pleasure of it. 

And she’s interested, but... unaccustomed. “They don’t encourage this,” she muttered once, staring down at your fingers threaded in hers. She still speaks of it in present tense, because Homeworld’s all she’s known. What they’ve taught her is all she’s known. She’s learned to associate physical contact with brute command, unexpected threats, violent retribution.

Certainly not comfort. Certainly not safety. She should, though.

So. You go slow. You tame yourself: tame your hands. 

And. It’s. _Hard._ It’s an effort of titanic fucking measure, actually, because after five millenia of complete isolation you’re a shapeless, greedy pile of want-want- _want._ When you press her back into a gritty shoreside copse and kiss the useless breath from her novice mouth, you want nothing more than to let your hands _feast:_ to coax her from that second-skin suit and metal shell: to break her down by aching increments of time and touch and taste into something soft and wanting, weakly pleased: whining where she needs you next.

You want nothing more than to see _yourself_ in someone _else_ , after so damned _long._

“Lapis -- stop --”

You whip your hands away and sit up so swiftly your mouth clicks shut. You wince; you wipe saliva from your lips. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She mumbles something as she sits upright, her hair a devil’s nest of incriminating evidence. She fumbles with her visor. “It’s… all fogged up...”

Relaxation pours. You’re so relieved, you can’t resist a low laugh at her expense. “Take it off, then.” (She never has before.) “I-if you want, I mean.”

She hesitates. Gives you a shy, cautious look...

… and pulls it away, for the first time.

She licks her lips. Nods; settles back, again. “Okay.”

You take the visor from her. You put it aside, somewhere safe.


	4. Pearl gets a lapdance (spoiler: Pearl doesn't get the lapdance)

 

You’ve always enjoyed ballet, certainly, but you don’t trust any human adaptation of dance that involves sitting in a chair. The inaction is an uncomfortable one; you shift your slight weight in the wooden seat.

 

“This is… part of a dance?” It comes out a bit muttered. Rose doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully. She’s been thrumming a grin this whole time, ushering you into her room with a giddiness you can’t help but crave to be the reason for.

 

Humans were, of course. Of course. You fight the urge to pucker.

 

“Have a little faith in human ingenuity, Pearl,” she glows, and you pour to fill in exactly what she asks of you. Yes. Yes; you’ll do exactly that.

 

She turns, summoning a copy of the sound system (“-- that music festival Greg and I found --”) you’ve been tinkering with, and you watch the sidereal swallow of her hips as she bends to (“-- not as flexible as _you_ , of course, but I can still --”) fiddle with the dial, starting a restless, syrupy song with a rhythm so thick (“-- want, okay?”) it sticks to your teeth.

 

She’s smiling expectantly at you. Oh no. You missed her question and stammer “O-of course!” just above the music. Entirely too much bass, goodness. Far too similar to the recorded tantrums Amethyst plays over and over.

 

The thought evaporates from your head, though, when Rose simmers you _that_ look: the one that first promised your back pressed into a thatch of grass, somewhere lush and dark: the look that’s saved now for the soft privacy of your chambers.

 

A croon: “Lovely.”

 

The sound bolts you to the floor. To the chair, which you’re now death-gripping.

 

You swallow.

 

She’s moving closer. _Slinking._ You feel your useless mouth try to hinge open as she smooths a hand up along her neck and you stare, utterly captive, as her hair shifts to a shorter length -- bundles above her nape, with a calligraphic elegance -- while she... her other hand… other hand, snakes down her -- her _hip_ \--

 

The dress over her _legs_ is shortening, too, shifting to a decadent _skirt_ and you find yourself scarce of breath you don’t even _need_ wondering how high it will go --

  
Fingers cup your chin: close it with a light _click._ “At least wait until I’ve started before snapping the chair, my Pearl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rose: *exists*  
> Pearl: I'm wet


	5. (human) Lapidot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to try taking prompts for this! Any pairing + a couple words of inspiration (setting, kinks, idk) in the askbox at jeejyboard.tumblr.com. Can't promise I'll get to them all, but I'd sure like to try!

You only have a few drinks apiece beforehand, to loosen up -- talk about work, TV shows, movies, normal bullshit. Both of you heard from Jasper recently. A little time goes by reminiscing on college antics while Lapis makes extra blatant efforts to touch you: brush of pinky against your hand as she reaches for her drink, cuddling her hip into yours. She insists on paying. The handful of slummy-chic blocks back to her apartment would make for a dreary walk, maybe, if you weren’t so pleasantly buzzed. But you keep complaints to a bone minimum because you know Lapis wants you relaxed.

 

Now. If only she’d do the same.

 

“Do you want another drink?” It’s the second time she’s asked. You hear her rummaging around in the kitchen (she doesn’t _seriously_ need the pretense of coffee or a nightcap, does she?) and watch her silhouette on the living room wall. You’ve had this planned for weeks. Discussed it, in _minute_ detail. And while you understand Lapis just wants to be careful with you, just wants to be gentle with a newbie, she doesn’t seem to understand that all the hand-wringing is a slight to your pride.

 

“I want you to get in here and kiss me.”

 

The kitchen goes quiet. You almost take to your feet to see what the problem is, but then she’s in the doorway, silhouette spilled long across the floor. Vienna cream of stovelight frames her from behind: both a beacon and a beckon.

 

She says, small, “Bedroom’s more comfortable.”

 

And she’s right. It is. After some kissing and petting -- some friendly stumbles, trying to relearn old favorites -- even the geriatric bite of linen rope over your skin has a kind of pleasance. The lighting is low. Not even a stagelight could help you see much, though, beetled helpless on your back as you are. If you crane your neck to look down, all you can see are your breasts: newly plumped between the diamonds she’s tied.

 

Her hand on your cheek surprises you. It's shaky, but hungry. “You’re okay?”

 

“Yeah.” Her touch is nice. Warm. You want it lower.

 

“Can I…?” There's a camera in her other hand, you realize. Looks expensive.

 

“... just a few.”

 

You’ve never seen her wear this expression before. Reverent. The shutter whirrs once, and again. Your eyes skim closed. Even in the dark, her gaze on you weighs like a physical touch.  

 

She whispers, “You look so good.”

 

 


	6. Pearlnet (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 100 words over but watch me not care

The curl of nerves in your lower back has just begun to complain when she gives a satisfied sigh: rope hisses as the knot smooths home, and you’re suddenly floating on nothing. You sigh, too.

 Your whole body melts. You let your entire weight settle onto the crib of criss-crossed rope around your hands, under your shoulders, your back, your thighs, and it’s all secure.  _You_ are secure. (A groan creeps into your mouth.)

“Too tight?”

Slow, you shake ‘No.’ They feel perfect. The knots. They’re a marked improvement from last time, at least. After some research, Pearl – being Pearl – found a better way to distribute your weight at such an angle and with such countered tension that your upper back and neck aren’t too raw for weekend boxing.

No, the ties definitely feel perfect. (Even if the neck massages had, too: full of kisses and cooing, little murmured apologies.)

“Need it tighter?” Her fingers drape your hip, nervous. “Anything hurt?”

You wait. Even with the blindfold, you can see her expression stiffen topside as she realizes her mistake. She’s gotten better. Still asks conflicting questions. And you can’t very well articulate nuanced circumstance with your mouth gagged and ringed soft with saliva.

Eight inches beneath you, the mattress snickers as she kneels on it. Ruins the illusion of floating, a bit. You won’t mention it though. Her palm settles on the flat of your waist and your nerves snap live as Christmas lights – wrapping tangled and sweet, draping good like warm tinsel around your back and hips and plucking at your clit. So soon, and so full. (You swallow.)

You feel the sinew over your hip jump; Pearl smooths her palm down your belly to soothe it.

“Everything okay?”

You nod. And you nod, again. Maybe you’re urging her hand lower. You feel the applecider of her bodyheat move closer as her lips ghost over your breast, and the moan that’s been brewing spills loose.

“You remember what to do if you want to stop?”

You nod three or four times because _yes,_  you remember –  _of course_ you do – you’ve got the bell held tight to the flesh of your palm to keep it from sounding off to distract her. If things go someplace you don’t like, you’ll drop it clanging to the bed. Pearl was wary of gags when you first brought them up, but she found a way to make it safe.

And she finds a way to make you moan, again. The pad of her thumb stirs a single stroke of pleasure from hip to hip, and you feel yourself sway in your harness.

“Oh… Garnet, do…” her voice cracks, almost: the sound paints her portrait in your mind’s eye and you can hear that she’s misted in reverent blues, hunched worshipful: keen to her knees with an Easter flush. “Do you – even  _know_  how gorgeous you are?”  
  
Her palm settles home: pets you, soft, where petting’s best. 


End file.
